


Learning to Fly

by duplicity



Series: The Adventures of Harry and Mr. Tom [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Angst and Feels, Bullying, Child Harry Potter, Demon Voldemort, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mentor Voldemort (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24814249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity
Summary: Following a bad run-in with his cousin Dudley, six-year-old Harry spends the day at the park with his best friend: a demon lord named Mr. Tom.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: The Adventures of Harry and Mr. Tom [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785181
Comments: 128
Kudos: 695





	1. Harry Hunting

**Author's Note:**

> continuation from parts 1 and 2 of this series!
> 
> tw for some fairly severe bullying at the start of this one, considering they're small children.

Now that summer is in full swing, Dudley and his gang have taken to roaming around the neighbourhood, looking for entertainment. 

(Or perhaps the ice cream truck—they never seem to be very picky about what their goals are.)

Unfortunately for Harry, this means that whenever his Aunt and Uncle kick him and Dudley out of the house, Harry spends a lot of time on his feet, running. Because no matter how many of Dudley's friends are allowed out at the time, Dudley is sure to seek out his entertainment in the form of his favourite game:

Harry Hunting.

And so Harry has had little opportunity to make use of his new magic ring. All his free time is eaten up either with chores, or by staying one step ahead of Dudley and his friends.

For some time now, Harry's only goal has been to get away long enough to call Mr. Tom.

So when he and Dudley are released into the hot summer's day, Harry _runs,_ the weight of the ring bouncing against his chest, reminding him that there is a reason to keep going, to get away, because eventually there will come a time when there is someone for him to run _towards,_ not away from.

Today, however, is not Harry's lucky day.

Not for the first time, Harry wonders if he'd used up all his luck on that day at Mrs. Figg's house. It has been over a week since Mr. Tom's last visit, and Harry hasn't gotten a single moment alone that hadn't consisted of being shut up in his cupboard.

While Mr. Tom had said that Harry was allowed to call him at any time, Harry does not want his new friend anywhere near any of the Dursleys.

The reasons for this are many, but what it really boils down to is one main fear that Harry can't quite articulate for himself. It is a fear that once Mr. Tom meets the Dursleys and hears what they have to say, he will agree with them that Harry is a freak, unworthy of time or presents or kind words.

Dudley and two others are close behind him, running with all their might. Although Harry is much quicker than they are, he is clumsier and he is tired. Harry consists of skinny, wobbly legs and a dry, parched throat from being cooped up for most of the morning.

The advantage of being small and fast lasts long enough for Harry to reach the local park, but it is not enough to save him from tripping on his untied shoelace and sprawling onto the grass, his glasses askew.

Harry scrambles to his feet, frantic, but by then he is too late—Dudley and the others have caught up, and the game is on.

Dudley lands hands on him first, shoving hard, and Harry stumbles back, nearly falling, trying to push his glasses back onto his face so he can see.

Harry is used to being pushed around, to having a few bruises here and there from Dudley's foot connecting with his shins. But today is the only day Harry has been caught, and Dudley must be feeling particularly happy about this because he grins widely.

"Hey, freak!" jeers Piers. "We caught you now!"

"Freak!" repeats Dudley. It is the word that Dudley had learned from his parents. It is the word that Harry knows separates him from everyone else.

Harry starts to move away again, but the boys spread out, daring him to try and move past. It's unfair, Harry thinks, that they can do this only because there are more of them.

Piers aims a kick, but Harry leaps out of the way, nimble. Harry feels a smug sense of satisfaction at the anger on the other boy's face.

"No one likes you!" Dudley shouts.

Harry shouts back without even thinking about it, saying, "That's not true! Shut up, Dudley!"

Because it's _not_ true, it isn't, Harry has a friend now, someone who likes him, and the proof is hanging from his neck, tucked behind his shirt.

The bullies exchange an uneasy glance. Harry has never yelled back like this before.

"It is true," Dudley says with confidence. "You haven't got any friends. Who'd want to be friends with a freak? A freak with no parents. A big crybaby."

Harry grits his teeth, but his hands ball into fists.

"No one wants to be your friend," Dudley continues, oblivious to the twisting and churning going on in Harry's stomach. "And no one will _ever_ want to be your friend."

Harry snaps.

He flies forward, waving his arms wildly, kicking and punching in every direction. Some of the blows land, too, and Dudley yowls in pain, swiping in retaliation, but Harry is no stranger to pain, he can weather it.

It takes both of the other two boys to pull him off Dudley. Harry is still fighting back, still scratching when he can, but it's harder when he's outnumbered. Harry ends up on the ground, curled up, arms wrapped around his stomach and head, ignoring the attempts to hurt him.

"You're crazy!" Dudley yells, half-sobbing. "You're crazy. I'm telling dad, and then you're gonna pay for this! You're gonna pay, you freak!"

At the sound of Dudley's voice, the bullies retreat, and Harry risks sitting up.

Dudley has tears in his eyes and is rubbing at his reddened face. Harry glances down at his own injuries, where the concrete had scraped his skin, the spots on his arms and legs that will bruise from the kicks. It hurts, but he feels... a rush.

He might be hurt, but Dudley is hurt, too. And the look of fear on the other boys' faces might be enough for them to think twice before they chase Harry again.

"Let's go," mumbles Piers, uncertain.

"You're gonna be in so much trouble," Dudley spits out, but the effect of the threat is somewhat ruined by the tears streaking down his face.

Harry spits on the ground at their feet. Dudley flinches. The spit is a little pink. His tongue is sore, so he must have bit it by mistake. Still, Harry doesn't feel like it hurts very much, and the blood does look impressive.

The three boys back off, leaving the park, leaving Harry alone by the playground.

Once he's sure that they're gone, Harry limps his way over to a bench and sits down. After looking himself over, it's really not so bad.

They had kicked him a few times, but they'd been too afraid to get close, and so the kicks hadn't been very hard. The worst of his wounds are from where he'd fallen on the concrete.

Harry runs his fingers over the old scabbing on his knees, brushing out the dirt in the new exposed areas. He'll have to go to the water fountain to clean it out and make sure all the dirt is gone. Harry flexes his legs experimentally, wincing at the tug. Maybe in a minute, when he's not as tired.

So instead, Harry thinks back on what Dudley had said about him. That he has no friends.

"It's not true," Harry whispers. "I have a friend."

Automatically, his hand reaches up for his necklace. For his ring. Proof that there is someone who cares. Someone who cares about him. 

But it's hard for Harry to remember that Mr. Tom exists when Harry is sitting here by himself, his arms and legs sore. The doubt is there in his head, and it is not so easy to shake.

It _has_ been over a week, and Harry hasn't used his ring at all. 

What if Mr. Tom thinks that Harry doesn't care anymore? What if Mr. Tom asks for the ring back because Harry's been such a horrible friend? Dudley and his friends hang out almost every day now that it's summer. Harry isn't able to do that.

Anxious, Harry runs his thumb over the bumpy metal. But the action that had helped calm him all week long no longer feels as comforting.

Maybe he should call Mr. Tom right now. There is no one around, the park is empty, and when Harry goes back home today, all that will happen is he'll get in trouble. He'll be locked in his cupboard again, and then he'll have no chance at all to call.

Besides, Harry had told Dudley that he has a friend, and it is true. As of right now, it is true. Mr. Tom had said so.

_(We are friends, after all. And friends never lie to each other.)_

Harry shifts on the bench, scrunching his face as a new bruise makes itself known. He _has_ to call now. Harry repeats this thought a few times in an attempt to convince himself.

What's strange is that Harry can imagine a stern voice in his head telling him not to be silly, that the ring is _meant_ for calling, and that _of course_ Mr. Tom would very much like to come and visit.

Harry bites his lip and rubs at his forearms, battling with his mixed feelings.

Okay, he should. He should do it. If he _doesn't_ do it now, then he won't be able to for a long time, and it would be rude to ignore Mr. Tom without any explanations.

Harry will tell Mr. Tom that he won't be able to call for some time, and that he'll understand if the man doesn't want them to be friends anymore since Harry can't play together every day.

Carefully, Harry tugs on the black ribbon looped around his neck. He hasn't taken it off since he'd gotten it. The ring slides up and over his shirt collar, dangling from his hand.

The ring is a lot bigger than all of his fingers, and so Harry spends some time trying to decide which finger to put it on.

Eventually he settles for the thumb, even though that's not really a finger for rings. Harry is more worried that it won't work because it doesn't fit properly. But surely Mr. Tom would have known that Harry's hand would be too small for such a thing?

Harry slides the ring on. The metal is warm from resting against his sweaty skin. Once the ring is settled, Harry thinks he can feel a weird hum in his hand.

The hum must be magic.

Harry closes his eyes and allows his mind to create a picture of his friend. Not the man-shaped form, but the other one, the one with the big horns and the claws.

The humming grows. The ring grows warmer, too. Harry hums along with it, a quiet sound to match the magic.

He imagines that Mr. Tom is standing here with him, right now. He wishes harder than he ever has for anything in his life.

The humming stops.

When Harry opens his eyes, panicked, he sees that his ring is glowing a very bright red.


	2. The Summoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort answers Harry's call.

In the fourth-deepest pit in the south-eastern section of the seventh circle of hell, a conglomeration of voices are screaming.

Voldemort, having switched off his ability to hear such things after the pleading grew repetitive, has left the pit under Dolohov's care for the time being. To Voldemort's left, one of the lesser demons is describing, in great gory detail, the continual beheading of one of their torture subjects.

Nodding disinterestedly in the pauses between mouth movements, Voldemort suppresses an urge to banish Amycus into a different circle of hell, just so the one-sided conversation will end. All that stays his hand is the fact that to retrieve the demon later on would be a hassle.

Amycus talks for a while longer, and then stops, looking expectantly in Voldemort's direction.

Oops.

Voldemort restores the audio of the general area, trying to think of a vague response that isn't discouraging, but also isn't too encouraging. He has standards for his underlings, after all.

"My Lord?" repeats Amycus, nervous.

It is sorely tempting to let the demon sit longer, stewing in fear of disapproval. But the report has gone on long enough, and Voldemort is no longer interested in this particular act of sadism.

"Report received," says Voldemort. "Dismissed."

Let Amycus think of what that means and twist it however he likes.

Amycus blinks pale eyelids over inky black eyes. "My Lord?"

Voldemort raises a brow, exuding tendrils of darkness to indicate his displeasure at being questioned, and watches as Amycus shrinks back in response. If it becomes necessary, then he will simply pluck the information from the demon's mind—

A soft echo sounds in Voldemort's head, drawing his attention away from the grovelling demon at his feet.

The call—soft and tentative—must be from the boy.

Voldemort frowns. How many days has it been since he'd last seen the child? The time has stretched on down here, slow and syrupy without the daylight to guide him. He  _ had _ made a mental note some time ago to check on the youngling if no call was received.

Checking on one's humans is not a priority here. If one lets torture go on for a few extra days, or weeks, or months, the difference is minimal. But for a child as young as Harry, the difference may be quite substantial. Proportionally speaking, even a single day will feel much longer for Harry than it will for him.

Voldemort uncrosses his legs and rises from his throne. Amycus scrambles back further, nearly tripping over his own feet in haste.

"I shall return shortly. Inform the others that I do not wish to be disturbed or followed, and failure to adhere to this instruction will result in  _ severe _ punishments."

"Yes, m'lord."

Travel into the realm of the living is not  _ quite _ instantaneous—hence the usual need for a blood sacrifice. In this case, however, Voldemort is powerful enough to endure any number of trips with no adverse effects to his person.

Therefore, to reach the boy, all he must do is trace the call to its source.

Voldemort summons his magic and transforms his appearance. The matter is simply a retraction of his most obvious extremities: the horns, the wings, the claws, and the tail. Then a minor reduction in height, followed by a subtle reshaping of the limbs. Humans are slimmer, their bodies more graceful in appearance, their muscles typically less defined.

Once the new form is in place, Voldemort vanishes from the seventh circle of hell, passing through realms, materializing on the planet earth, where young Harry Potter awaits.

* * *

Sunlight fades into focus. Blue skies, humid weather. A rolling grass field serves as the backdrop. Despite an indeterminate time spent below ground, none of this holds Voldemort's attention.

Instead, he lays eyes on the child. On the boy, Harry.

Harry's face is alight with recognition and excitement. Voldemort's ring is plainly visible on the thumb of his right hand, cradled carefully with his left hand wrapped around it. It pleases Voldemort to know the child takes good care of its possessions.

"Hello," he greets the boy, stepping forward so he can examine his human more closely.

Harry shuffles in place, nervous, and so Voldemort adjusts his pace, slowing his movements. He draws near, then drops to one knee to appear less threatening.

"Hello," Harry responds. "I'm sorry I didn't call you sooner—"

Voldemort raises a hand to stall the child's unnecessary apology. His eyes narrow at the sight of the boy's exposed skin. The arms and legs are a medley of reds, pinks, and purples. Scraped skin and emerging bruises.

Previously, Voldemort had assumed that the injuries were a result of normal play—a child fallen on the concrete, injuries that would be seen to and treated by the caretakers. Now, however, he sees that there are new injuries layered over the old ones.

"I am not upset with you," he says, and waits for Harry to nod in acknowledgement before he continues. "How long has it been," he asks, voice tight, "since you have last seen me?"

Not long, judging by the pinkness of the partially-healed wounds, but he wants Harry's verbal confirmation.

"A week," says Harry. Then the child nibbles on his lower lip, dropping his ring so it dangles loose from its ribbon, freeing his hands to twist anxiously at the hem of his shirt.

Voldemort stares in consternation at the youngling's skinny legs and bony knees. The pattern of the injuries are clear: these are not accidental, and they are certainly not self-inflicted.

Though Harry's call had contained neither haste nor panic, the bruises imply otherwise. Harry must have summoned him for help.

Rising to his full height, Voldemort turns to regard the area around them, the illusion of humanity shattering as he extends his senses outwards, searching—

"I'm okay," Harry insists, stepping over, leg  _ limping, _ and this is absolutely unacceptable.

Voldemort pivots to look down at his young charge. "Who did this to you?"

Harry's mouth snaps shut instantly.

This will take some coaxing. Voldemort discards his intention to sweep the area and instead refocuses on the boy. A wave of magic shimmers over them both, hiding them from view.

Harry gazes up, eyes wide, at the warped, transparent film that now encases them. "What is that?"

"You are avoiding my question, small one."

Harry frowns, brows pulling together in an expression of stubbornness. 

_ There will be no extricating the information with bluntness, _ Voldemort thinks with exasperation.  _ This requires a gentler hand, as did our previous interactions. _

If he must manipulate the youngling in this case, then he will do so.

"Harry," he says, smoothing his voice into the kind tone that has convinced many a human into signing away their soul, "are you not my friend? And have we not agreed that friends do not lie to each other?"

"I'm not lying," Harry says, after a pause.

_ Clever boy. _ But Voldemort is not yet finished with his line of questioning.

"As I am your friend, I care about you. If you are harmed, then this upsets me. If you do not share the cause of your injuries, then how am I to know that it will not happen again?" Voldemort sinks back to the pavement, places one clawed hand on the boy's small shoulder.

"I would be worried all the time, concerned that you were being harmed without my knowledge. It might distract me from my important work. You would not want this for me, would you? By far the simplest solution is for you to inform me who has harmed you, and then I can ensure you are safe and protected in the future."

Harry fidgets, twitching under Voldemort's hand. But the logic is ironclad, and even clever little Harry will have difficulty arguing away his desire to remain silent.

"It—" Harry starts, then sniffles. "It's not a big deal, okay? I'm okay, I promise."

"Harry," begins Voldemort, a warning.

"It was my cousin Dudley," Harry mumbles out in a rush. "And his friends."

Dudley. The name rings familiar, and Voldemort recalls the very first question Harry had asked of him:

_ Hello, sir. Are you the monster that lives under Dudley’s bed? _

"Your cousin," Voldemort says flatly.

"He's the same age as me," Harry offers.

Voldemort releases Harry's shoulder. It won't do for Harry to think himself the recipient of the rage Voldemort feels building in his chest, festering there like a disease. 

"I will find him and bring him here. I will bring them all here, and they will regret ever having harmed you," he says, decisive.

"No!" Harry exclaims, hysteria suddenly swelling in the air between them as Harry leaps forward and clutches onto Voldemort's leg. "No, you  _ can't _ do that! You can't!"

Voldemort gauges the boy's seriousness, bewildered. An urge so strong, a fear so violent, that Harry has discarded his aversion to reaching out.

Tiny fingers grip tight against the rough texture of Voldemort's bare leg, his non-human leg. Harry's anxiety has nothing to do with Voldemort's monstrous appearance. Harry is concerned for the well-being of his tormentors.

Why? Why does Harry not wish to seek vengeance on those who have wronged him?

"You mistake this for a situation where you are allowed input," Voldemort says, not unkind. "As your friend, I wish to keep you safe."

"You can't," Harry repeats, voice high and pitched, his shoulders trembling like saplings during a strong wind. "You can't! Please, Mr. Tom, you can't do that,  _ please—" _

The tone increases in volume, the scent of panic reeking, and Voldemort realizes, belatedly, that if he continues to insist, the boy will begin to cry.

Relenting, Voldemort shifts to his human appearance once more, retracting the aura of darkness that had begun to gather in his righteous anger on behalf of the small human by his side.

"Very well," he says, "I will do nothing for the moment."

Harry continues to shake, so Voldemort places both hands—human now—around the boy's face. Not the forearms, given that the previous attempt had resulted in tears, but this way he can ensure the boy's attention remains fixed on him, and not on whatever upsetting thoughts are racing through the boy's mind.

"I will not do anything right now," he repeats. "I will stay here with you."

After a minute of repeating variations of this statement, Harry calms down. Then, of course, Harry seems to be embarrassed by his outburst, but his attempt to duck his head down is halted by the palms pressed lightly to either side of this face.

"Okay," Harry whispers. "Okay."

Now that the atmosphere has settled, Voldemort decides to change the subject. "Why don't we turn our attention to something else? What activity would you like us to do?"


	3. A Bit of Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has some fun with his best friend.

"Why don't we turn our attention to something else? What activity would you like us to do?"

The sudden question draws Harry up short. It is not a question he is used to being asked, and so it takes a moment for him to understand it. All his dreams of having friends to play with swim through his head. Harry thinks back on all the times he'd watched other children on the playground, what they did, what he wished he could be doing.

Just behind Mr. Tom, the park playground is empty. There had been some other kids hanging around earlier, but Harry assumes they now must have gone home for lunch.

Speaking of lunch—Harry rubs an absentminded hand over his stomach. There's no point in thinking about returning to the Dursleys. No lunch will be waiting for him there, not after Dudley's gone and told on him.

"Let us sit on the bench."

Harry startles from his thoughts, then obediently shuffles over to the bench. He goes to climb on, but Mr. Tom stops him, instead seizing him around the armpits and depositing him onto the wood.

"I can sit down on my own!" Harry says, squirming out of the grasp.

Mr. Tom tsks at him, then crouches down and reaches for one of Harry's ankles. "Think on what you wish to do, and I will see to your injuries."

Harry has his left leg lifted into the air. It's hard to think when he's being touched like that. It's distracting.

"You're distracting me," Harry accuses.

Mr. Tom raises a brow, and Harry feels his face flush. His friend is only trying to help, and Harry is being ungrateful again.

"Sorry," says Harry. "You can look at my leg. I don't mind."

Harry feels a cold wash tingle over his skin as Mr. Tom's hand passes over his injuries. It tickles enough that Harry lets out a soft giggle without really meaning to. When the hand pulls away, Harry can see that his leg looks normal. There are no more marks at all.

"Thank you!" Harry says, twisting his ankle experimentally. Then he goes to stand, but Mr. Tom puts a hand on his chest, holding him in place.

The man's face is amused. "Your other leg, small one."

"Oh," Harry says, embarrassed. He sits back down and swings his right leg up for Mr. Tom to catch. They repeat the process, and this time Harry is ready: he keeps his lips pressed shut, holding back the laughter squirming in his gut.

Once the right leg is done, Mr. Tom gives his knee a pat. "Now for your arms."

Harry holds out one arm at a time, and soon everything is free of marks. No need for bandaids, even. Harry rubs at the bare skin, trying to see if there's any pain leftover.

"All done?" Harry asks, just to be sure.

"All done," confirms Mr. Tom. "What would you like to do?"

Harry hops off the bench, then wraps his arms around himself, unsure. There is something he would like to do, something he knows kids are supposed to do after they have their boo boos patched up.

"I—" Harry starts, nervous. "Can I—"

"Yes?" Mr. Tom's voice is patient. Gentle. Harry feels safe knowing that his friend is here with him, and this is what gives him courage to speak.

"Can I have a hug?"

A pause develops, during which Harry worries that the answer will be no. Because Mr. Tom is his friend, not his parent and not his teacher, and maybe friends aren't supposed to ask for these things.

"Of course. You _may_ have a hug."

Harry smiles, relieved.

Neither of them move.

"Um," says Harry. He's not sure if he needs to move or not. But then again, he and Mr. Tom aren't like normal friends. Mr. Tom is looking at him, though, so Harry takes the last step forward and drapes his arms around the man's neck, hoping that he's not making a mistake.

Mr. Tom smells a bit funny. Like fancy perfume and cigarette smoke. Harry rests his chin on Mr. Tom's shoulder, wondering if the large, bird-like wings are tucked away behind the thick fabric of the jacket.

Slowly, arms come to wrap around Harry's back. Harry feels Mr. Tom pat him a few times, and then they pull away from each other.

"Very good," says Mr. Tom. He clears his throat and rubs at the back of his neck, which is where Harry had been clinging.

Harry's glad that it was a good hug. "Thank you," he says. "For making the bruises go away."

"You're welcome." The soft tone is back. Harry likes hearing it.

"Can we—" Harry glances at the playground. "Can we go on the playground?"

Mr. Tom stands at full height, holding out a hand. "Lead the way."

Harry takes the hand, noting that his hand only wraps around three of those fingers, and walks Mr. Tom over to the swing set.

"The swings are my favourite," Harry says, matter of fact. "I like to go really high. I can swing higher than everyone else," he adds proudly, puffing his chest out a bit.

"An admirable talent."

Harry doesn't know what 'admirable' means, but the word sounds nice. "It's the bestest," Harry agrees.

Mr. Tom gives Harry's hand a squeeze. "Hm. I think you mean 'best'."

Harry frowns. "That's the same thing."

"It is not the same thing," says Mr. Tom, but then they have reached the swings, and the entire conversation vanishes from Harry's mind.

"This one," Harry says, dragging Mr. Tom by the hand. "This one's the best one. Um, and the one next to it is nice, too." Harry bites his lip and glances over his shoulder at his friend. He won't mind giving up his favourite swing if it means they can swing together.

Mr. Tom drops Harry's hand and moves towards the good swing. Harry's stomach does a little twist, but he tells himself it doesn't matter.

Only, Mr. Tom doesn't sit down. He grabs both of the metal chains, one strand in each hand, and nods his head down at the empty seat.

Harry breathes out in surprise and quickly dashes forward to sit down before the man can change his mind.

"Hold tight," murmurs Mr. Tom, and then gives Harry a big push.

Harry feels a rush as his surroundings swoosh away, his feet leaving the ground as he is launched into the air. Pumping his legs, Harry starts to work up a momentum, aided by the push of hands against his back, guiding him upwards.

Up and up and up. Harry lets out a laugh as he goes higher and higher, swinging towards the sun and the blue skies.

"Having fun?"

"Yes!" Harry shouts back. His heart is soaring, and he feels like a bird. Harry imagines he has his own wings on his back, large and flapping, able to carry him away the next time Dudley tries to chase him.

The swinging continues even as Harry feels his legs go tired. Each time he goes back up, it seems very high, higher than he's ever gone before. Eventually, Harry stops kicking his legs at all. The only thing keeping him in the air is Mr. Tom's hands pressing against his back.

"Okay," Harry says, once he's gotten enough of seeing the playground below him, looking tinier than ever from the great heights he has achieved today with the help of his friend. "We can stop now." Mr. Tom must be tired from all the pushing. Harry is certainly tired from all the swinging.

The swing slows almost immediately, floating back towards the ground. Harry feels the steady presence behind him grasp the swing, holding it still.

Harry drops his feet back onto the ground. His legs wobble right away, unused to the solid ground. Harry stumbles and grabs backwards at the swing for balance. Instead of the metal, he finds Mr. Tom reaching out to set him back on his feet.

"Careful," chides Mr. Tom.

"I'm fine," Harry says, twisting around. "Just an accident."

Mr. Tom looks at him in a way that Harry decides means his friend is not impressed.

Harry pulls away from the swing and crosses his arms over his chest to prove he can stand on his own. "See?" he says. "Fine."

Mr. Tom opens his mouth to reply, but he is cut off by the sound of grumbling from Harry's stomach.

"Oops," Harry says. "Sorry."

"Hungry?"

"Um. A little bit. It's okay. We don't have to stop." Harry doesn't want to be sent home. He wants to stay here a while longer.

"Don't be ridiculous. We have plenty of time."

Mr. Tom steps forward, and Harry stays in place, confused.

Then Harry is seized around the waist and lifted into the air. "Hey! Put me down!" He smacks at the man's shoulder. "I don't want to be picked up."

A few seconds go by, and then Harry is set back down on the ground.

"If you fall—"

"I'm not going to!" Harry huffs, indignant. "I'm not _a baby."_

Mr. Tom snorts at him. "To the bench, then."

Harry walks a bit slower than usual, watching where he puts his feet. If Mr. Tom notices this, he doesn't say anything.

They reach the bench. Harry climbs onto it on his own, without help, and Mr. Tom sits beside him.

"Are we having lunch?" Harry asks, curious. Mr. Tom doesn't have any bags with him. Is he going to make food with magic? Is he going to share? Harry hasn't brought any lunch with him, and it would be rude to ask for food.

"We are."

Mr. Tom holds his hand out, and Harry watches, fascinated, as an entire sandwich appears out of thin air.

"That's amazing," Harry blurts. "How do you do that?"

"It's summoning, small one. A simple task." Mr. Tom ruffles Harry's head with his free hand. "Here. This one is for you."

"Thank you," Harry says, and takes the sandwich with both hands. Lettuce and tomatoes and ham and cheese. He takes a big bite. It tastes very good. Harry chews and chews as fast as he can.

Mr. Tom is watching him eat. Harry feels a bit weird about that. Should he eat faster?

"Are you going to eat?" Harry asks, once he's swallowed his mouthful.

"I don't have a need for food like you do. I can wait for you to finish."

Harry takes a bigger bite and tries to chew faster.

Mr. Tom narrows his eyes. "Eat slowly. It will cause you indigestion."

Harry doesn't want to eat slowly, but he also doesn't want to get in trouble. So he settles for taking big bites and chewing at a normal pace.

Once the sandwich is done, Harry brushes himself off crumbs. His throat is kind of itchy. Or maybe it's sore.

"Water?"

"There's a water fountain over there." Harry points over at the other side of the playground.

Mr. Tom creates a glass of milk and holds it out.

"Oh," Harry says, surprised. The glass is cold. "Thanks."

The milk disappears much faster than the sandwich. Harry wipes his mouth on his arm when he's done.

"Not like that." Mr. Tom hands him a cloth. It's mostly white, but there is a dark, dark red colour in the middle. The red is stitched on with string, and it looks like a splat shape. Harry dabs at his mouth with the cloth, scared of getting it dirty even though Mr. Tom had given it to him for cleaning. Then, when Mr. Tom glances down pointedly, Harry wipes his arm off, too.

Harry hands the cloth back, sheepish.

Mr. Tom vanishes it away. He's smiling while he does it, and Harry suspects that the man might be showing off.

"Now what?" Harry asks.

"What do you want to do?"

Harry shakes his head. "It's your turn to pick," he says. "So it's fair."

That earns him a head pat. Harry feels warm whenever Mr. Tom praises him or pats him. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon do the same with Dudley, and Harry had always wondered what it felt like. Now that he does know, he's pretty sure he would do anything to keep it.

"Would you like to see some more magic?" Mr. Tom asks.

"Yes," Harry says, right away. "Yes, please."

Mr. Tom chuckles, but it's a happy sound, not a mocking one. Then noise fades away, leaving a thoughtful expression. "I do wish I could give you something else to keep. But you said your aunt and uncle wouldn't approve of that."

Harry shrugs. He's already accepted that fact, though he does like hearing that Mr. Tom wants to give him more presents. "It's okay," Harry says. "I don't mind."

"You say that very frequently. If you are ever unhappy, if something bothers you, you should feel free to say so."

"Okay," Harry says.

A hand pats at his head again in response. Harry blinks up at his friend. "Can I see some magic now?" he asks. "Please?"

"Hold out your hands."

Harry does so.

"Close your eyes."

Harry smiles at the familiarity. He'll close his eyes, and when he opens them, he'll see a cool surprise, like his ring.

Some small and squirmy gets dropped into his hand. Harry wants to see what it is, so badly, but he hasn't been told to open his eyes yet.

Whatever it is makes a snorting sound. Maybe it's a frog? Or a lizard? Harry can feel the little feet dancing around on his palms.

_"Open."_

The word sounds almost like a hiss. Harry opens his eyes and gapes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the final chapter will post either on saturday or sunday :)


	4. Bestest Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's fun day at the park comes to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to [Faisalliot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faisalliot/pseuds/Faisalliot) for Bell's name!

There is a tiny lizard in Harry's hands. It's dark red, just like Mr. Tom's handkerchief, and is covered in scales. It has black claws, too, just like Mr. Tom's other body.

Then the lizard sneezes, and fire comes out.

"It's a _dragon,"_ Harry breathes. "It's a dragon!" He looks to his friend for confirmation.

"This one in particular is known as the Chinese Fireball."

The dragon stomps around on Harry's hands. Looking closer, Harry can see that it has golden spikes on its face. "Does it have a name? Is it a boy or a girl? What do they eat? Can it fly?"

Mr. Tom leans back against the bench. "This one has no name. Would you like to name it?"

Harry stretches out a cautious finger to stroke down the back of the dragon. The spikes tickle against his fingertip. The dragon seems offended at being petted. It stretches its wings out and takes to the air, flying in a loop. That answers one of his questions.

"That's okay," Harry says. "It should have an owner, and the owner should give it a name."

The dragon flaps around in a lazy circle, occasionally snorting fire. Harry is fascinated by the sight of it. He has often thought about flying, and now here is another example of its possibility.

"I could look after the dragon for you. Then it would be yours, only under my care while you live with your relatives."

"Do lots of, um, other people like you have dragons?"

Mr. Tom leans in like he's telling a secret. "Only the best ones."

Harry shifts around in his seat. The dragon lands on his knee, little clawed feet poking at Harry's exposed skin. "Won't it forget about me? If I'm away too long? What if it forgets that I'm its owner?"

"I'm sure your dragon will remember you no matter what," Mr. Tom says.

The Chinese Fireball hops back onto Harry's hand, craning its head to the side. Harry smiles at it and goes to stroke it again. Only, the dragon swishes to the side, mouth clamping down on Harry's finger.

"Hey!" Harry says, scolding it. The dragon releases his finger and spits out a spark of fire in response.

Mr. Tom yanks the dragon away, lightning fast, scooping the dragon up into his hand. Then he touches its head, and then the dragon falls asleep, slumping down.

"Wait," Harry protests. "It doesn't hurt. They were just playing."

Mr. Tom narrows his eyes.

"Friends don't lie to each other," Harry reminds him. "It's a good dragon. They didn't hurt me."

Mr. Tom wakes the dragon back up, eyeing them crossly. The dragon flicks their tail in Mr. Tom's direction and flaps back over to Harry.

"I want to give it a big long name," Harry decides. "Like your name."

Mr. Tom's face does something funny, almost like he's confused, but not quite. "A long name?"

A fancy name for a fancy dragon. Even if the dragon doesn't remember Harry, the dragon will think Mr. Tom is its owner. That's almost as good as having a dragon for himself. It's already very nice that Mr. Tom is letting him give the dragon a name, so the dragon's name should be just as impressive as Mr. Tom's long name.

"What are some other words like being angry?" Harry asks. Since they like biting, Harry thinks this makes sense. They like to pretend to be angry, but they really aren't. They're teasing, like when Mr. Tom pokes fun at him.

Nr. Tom sighs and crosses his legs, one over the other. Then he drapes an arm over Harry's shoulders and starts to list a bunch of words with hardly a pause for breath.

"Furious. Displeased. Ill-tempered. Maddened. Infuriated. Wrathful. Enraged. Belligerent—"

"I like that one."

"Belligerent?"

"Bell-ger-rent."

Mr. Tom stares for so long that Harry wonders if he should pick another name instead.

Then Mr. Tom says, "Why don't you call it Bell for short?"

Harry brightens. "Okay!"

Bell spits out a fresh stream of fire in celebration of their name. Harry claps his hands together, applauding. "Hello, Bell," says Harry.

"Why don't you go play together?" Mr. Tom asks. "And get to know each other? I can watch over you from here."

"Are you sure?" Harry says. "Don't you want to play?"

"I'm a little tired," Mr. Tom says, smiling. "But I would like you to enjoy yourself. I promise I'll have just as much fun watching you play."

"Okay," Harry says, reassured by the promise. "Let's go, Bell!"

Harry rushes back off to the playground, little red dragon by his side.

* * *

Harry and Bell spend the rest of the afternoon chasing each other around the playground.

_(If the playground is oddly empty for a hot summer afternoon, the only one who notices is Lord Voldemort.)_

Soon, though, Harry knows he'll need to go back home. So it's with a lump in his throat that Harry calls for Bell to follow him over to Mr. Tom, who is still sitting on the bench.

"I should head back home now," Harry says.

It'll be bad enough when he gets back, he doesn't need to be late for dinner as well. Bell lands on his shoulder and crawls up, bumping their head against Harry's jaw. Harry gives the dragon a pat, but it doesn't make him feel much better.

Mr. Tom looks disappointed, too, but he says, "It's only for now, small one. We'll see each other again."

"I'm going to be in trouble for what I did to Dudley," Harry says.

"Oh?"

"I hit him." Harry pauses. "I hit him a lot of times, actually. And I scratched him, too." Harry looks down at his shoes. "I'm going to be grounded for a while, which means I can't call you."

"That's perfectly fine," Mr. Tom says. He's frowning again, and Harry wonders if he'll change back into his other form, the bigger one. "You were right to fight back, regardless of what your relatives tell you. How many of them were there?"

"Dudley and two others."

"Well then, three against one is hardly equal. I'd say every single hit you landed on them was worth ten of theirs."

Harry feels that surge of pride again. He doesn't fight back very often, but today in particular feels like a win. "You think so?"

"I do."

"It means I can't call you, though," Harry says, trying to hide his disappointment. "So maybe I shouldn't have done it. I just wasn't thinking, and Dudley kept saying these things about me—"

"What _things?"_

Harry flushes. "He said that I don't have any friends. I told him that it wasn't true, but he didn't believe me. So I hit him before he could hit me."

"That's right," Mr. Tom says, "you do have a friend. Your cousin was very foolish to come after you, wasn't he? If he knew who I was, do you think he would be so brave?"

"Probably not," Harry admits. Mr. Tom does look a little scary sometimes, but it doesn't bother him. He knows that Mr. Tom is a nice person.

"Hmm." Mr. Tom gestures for Harry to come closer.

Harry goes right up to the bench, and then Mr. Tom pulls Harry onto his lap.

"I think," says Mr. Tom, "that I should teach your cousin a very important lesson on being kinder to others. After all, the next person he upsets may not be as benevolent as you are."

Harry shakes his head. "You said you wouldn't! You promised."

Mr. Tom angles his own head, shifting Harry on his lap so that Harry can see his face, his red eyes. "Is there a reason why you don't want me to do anything?"

"If you do, then I'll get in more trouble," Harry says quietly. "Dudley will blame it on me, and they'll believe him, not me."

"What if I did something that even Dudley could not blame you for? Would you like that?"

Harry frowns, trying to imagine what that might be. "Are you sure?" he asks instead. He does trust Mr. Tom, but he can't help but be worried about what will happen to him if something bad happens to Dudley.

"I promise."

"Well," Harry says, "I don't know." It had been nice to get one over Dudley today. It would be even better if Mr. Tom could convince Dudley to leave him alone for good.

"I promise that what I do will not be blamed on you," Mr. Tom says, stroking a hand down the back of Harry's head. "Will you let me help you?"

"Um, okay. Okay, I guess." Harry doesn't feel totally comfortable with it, but he _does_ want Dudley to leave him alone, and he doesn't want to make Mr. Tom unhappy.

"Wonderful." Mr. Tom pets his hair down, then sets Harry on the ground. “What is your cousin’s name?”

“Dudley?”

“I’ll need the surname as well, small one.”

“Dudley Dursley.”

Mr. Tom smiles and cups his hands together like he’s holding an invisible secret. Harry can hear a hum of magic, just like before. The hum builds quickly, and then Mr. Tom opens his hands to release a squirmy bit of dark black smoke that flies into the air, zooming away. 

Harry watches the smoke disappear into the distance. “That was really cool,” he says. “What did it do?”

“Consider it a surprise,” Mr. Tom says, still smiling. "Now I will walk you home."

"I can walk back by myself," Harry says, now anxious.

What if the Dursleys see them? What if they try to talk to Mr. Tom? Harry doesn't know how that would go, but he does know that it would be very, very bad. Mr. Tom is different from all the adults that Harry knows. Harry doesn't want to share his friend with the Dursleys.

Mr. Tom holds out a hand, giving it an impatient shake. "Come now, Harry. Don't you want to spend more time with me?"

Harry _does,_ but... 

"I can walk home by myself," Harry says, putting confidence into his voice. "I _told you,_ I'm not a baby."

Mr. Tom lowers his hand slowly. There's a sad feeling in Harry's stomach at seeing that. He hopes that Mr. Tom isn't upset with him.

"Alright. You can walk back by yourself, then."

Harry pauses. "Really?"

"If that is what you want, then I want you to be happy."

"Okay. Then I want to walk back by myself." Harry picks Bell up off of his shoulder. The dragon squirms, spitting sparks, but allows theirself to be passed over into Mr. Tom's hands.

Harry rubs his palms on his shorts. He doesn't want to leave just yet, but the longer he stands here, the later it will get. "Okay," he repeats. "Good bye, then."

"See you soon," Mr. Tom corrects.

"See you soon," Harry says. He takes a few steps away, walking backwards.

"You are going to trip if you continue like that."

"I won't," Harry says. Then he sighs. "I am really sorry that I can't call you for a while."

"It is not your fault. I would prefer you defend yourself than get hurt on my behalf."

"So is it really okay that we can't play for a while?" Harry asks, just to be sure. All the questions that he'd been thinking earlier are now coming out. "Dudley and his friends play almost every day now that it's summer."

Mr. Tom closes the distance between them and sets a warm hand on Harry's shoulder as he says, "It is _really okay."_

"I mean," Harry says nervously, "if it's not okay, then that's okay, too. I get if you don't want to be friends because we can't hang out all the time."

"Silly child." Mr. Tom rubs at Harry's shoulder. It feels nice, and it reminds Harry of their hug from earlier. "No matter how long it takes for you to call, I promise I will always want to answer."

Harry sniffs a bit at hearing that. "You're the bestest friend ever," he blurts out, and then stumbles forward to wrap his arms around the man's waist.

Mr. Tom makes a funny sound, but his hand stays on Harry's shoulder while Harry hugs him. After a second, Harry pulls away.

"See you soon," Harry says to Mr. Tom and Bell. Then he turns around and marches away before he loses his bravery.

* * *

Harry's arrival at the Dursley's does not result in any surprises. Aunt Petunia’s face pales at the sight of Harry’s unmarked arms and legs. Uncle Vernon calls him a freak. Harry misses dinner that night. He is to stay in his cupboard for the rest of the week except for chores and meals and using the bathroom. 

Dudley is smug about Harry's punishment, even with the large bandaids plastered all over his arms and legs as Aunt Petunia fusses over him.

The fussing doesn't bother Harry anymore. He doesn't want Aunt Petunia to fuss over him. The sandwich he'd eaten earlier sits in his stomach, keeping him full. The hug he'd gotten reminds him that as soon as his punishment is over, he has something to look forward to.

Harry goes to sleep in his cupboard that night. He is not hungry, and he is not unhappy. When he sleeps, he has nice dreams about flying in the sky with Bell and Mr. Tom.

The next morning, Harry wakes up to voices outside. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon are talking in the hall. Harry sits up, rubbing at his eyes, and crawls over to the door so he can listen in.

"I don't know, Pet! He hasn't had a nightmare like this in years, you said—"

Harry crams his glasses on his face and peers through the slots in the cupboard door. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon are in the living room, arguing.

"He keeps insisting, Vernon! That there is something under his bed. I have told him there is no such thing. We've been up for hours now, since midnight! My poor Dudley... you don't think he's—he's—"

"No, no. Nightmares are perfectly normal. It's just an overactive imagination." Uncle Vernon's moustache twitches like a fat, furry worm. "Our boy's got a vivid imagination, that's all! Takes the horrid stuff of nightmares to scare our Dudders."

"The way he _describes_ it!" Aunt Petunia shudders, shaking her hands out in front of her. "I've never heard of anything like it! What kind of monster is that? Horns and wings and claws. It's like the devil, Vernon! The devil!"

Both adults go silent, then. Harry has heard enough. He shifts away from the door and shuffles back to his bed. Harry tucks himself under the covers and closes his eyes, intent on going back to sleep, a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth.

The monster that lives under Dudley's bed is his friend. Maybe the next week will go by faster than he'd thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's a wrap on this story! part FOUR of this series will be out shortly, and will feature our wonderful demon lord and a number of his demonic associates. 
> 
> thank you for reading. kudos, bookmarks, comments, and subscriptions are appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> find me & my writing updates on tumblr [here](https://duplicitywrites.tumblr.com)!
> 
> feel free to join my personal discord server for my writing (and where i livewrote this story) [here](https://discord.gg/BJRP4A5)!


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